The Quote: “I realized I didn’t want to write in code anymore.” From: 2021 The Anthropocene Reviewed — John Green My Take: There’s a moment in writing when you stop performing and start telling the truth — not the grand, cinematic truth, but the small one you’ve been carrying quietly for years. That’s what it means to stop writing in code. It’s the decision to stop pretending you’re fine when you’re not, to stop sanding down the edges of what hurts, to stop hiding behind cleverness because vulnerability feels too expensive. When you write without code, you’re not trying to be profound. You’re just trying to be real. You’re admitting that your life has been messy, that your fears have teeth, that your joy is fragile, that your hope is something you have to rebuild over and over. And somehow, that honesty — the shaky, unpolished kind — is what makes the work feel alive. Because the truth is, writing isn’t about revelation. It’s about recognition. It’s the moment someone reads your words and thinks, Oh. I’ve felt that too. And suddenly the world feels a little less lonely, and you feel a little more like a person who belongs in it. PSA: Sometimes it feels like I’m getting quietly escorted out of Skool rooms I didn’t even know I’d entered. A few pages, a few people — gone. No explanation, no message, just a digital door closing. I’ve reached out for clarity and gotten silence, which is its own kind of answer, I guess. If my writing ever rubs you the wrong way, just send me a DM. I’d rather hear it from a human than from an automated ban button. I’m here to connect, not to confuse.

Sorry I've been a bit quiet on this site recently. Helping my wife out after surgery. Process lasted longer than we anticipated but things are winding down. Looking forward chatting about Gen Xers living in an AI world 🙂

“Before we met, I had spent a lifetime devoted to Wittgenstein’s idea that the inexpressible is contained—inexpressibly!—in the expressed.” Quote From 2015 The Argonauts — Maggie Nelson My Take: Writing doesn’t fail when it brushes the unsayable — it carries it. It’s a reminder that the work isn’t to capture everything perfectly, but to trust that what can’t be said still moves inside what is said. Almost like a quiet permission slip to write boldly, without apology. I read this book because a University friend used to always greet me with: “Jason - where are your Argonauts?” Of course - he meant the “other” Argonauts. Instead, Maggie Nelson’s “Argonauts” refers to Roland Barthes’ metaphor of the Argo - a ship. The Argo’s planks are replaced over time but it still remains “the Argo”—a way of thinking about how love, identity, and language renew themselves with each use.

The Quote: “Every moment of my life brings with it an accumulation of new facts… the more I seek to return to the zero moment from which I set out, the further I move away from it.” The Book: 1979 / 1981 “If on a winter’s night a traveler” Italo Calvino Harcourt FICTION / EXPERIMENTAL 1st English Edition My Take: This line hits me because it captures the impossibility of undoing anything. Every time you try to fix something or rewind to an earlier version of yourself, you don’t actually go back—you just create new ripples, new complications, new versions of the story. Life really doesn’t have a reset button. The more you try to return to “how things were,” the more tangled everything becomes. What feels true is that every reset—every habit you restart, every relationship you try to repair, every project you attempt to reboot—doesn’t erase the past. It just adds another layer on top of it. Maybe the real move isn’t trying to get back to the beginning at all. Maybe it’s learning to build forward from the mess, not despite it but with it. Whatever - these ideas are entrenched deep in Existentialism - but a beautiful quote nonetheless.

From 2005 “Kafka on the Shore” Haruki Murakami Vintage International Fiction Novels My Take: This quote encapsulates a symbolist approach to fiction: treat the world as rich with potential meaning, but anchor your narrative in moments of concrete reality so the metaphors land with power. It’s a guiding principle for crafting depth without losing emotional truth. Anger is a compass — not just a flare‑up, but a bright, honest signal that helps you spot your boundaries, name what you want, and find your way back to creative health. (Of course I’m a bit biased because I met Murakami in NYC and asked him to sign my copy. He agreed that anger is what guides you in certain situations.)